


A Poetic Way of Saying This: I'm Sorry It's Only a Bullet Point List

by ergo_existence



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, episode 8 sparked this, episode 9 continued this, season 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1849534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ergo_existence/pseuds/ergo_existence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The odds had always seemed to be in their favour; from the moment Caboose blew Church up with a tank to the moment the rocks fell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ego non intelligo vir, sed eam adservo me sursum ad noctum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments 100% appreciated. this was written on a whim between my other fic I'm writing. ꒰ू•௰ू•๑꒱  
> credit to redditor: Moesohh for latin

There’s something about the air at the Rebel Army’s camp. It’s not suffocating, nor does it have a lingering smell of death, like Tucker thought it would. Tucker can’t really describe it well, but it’s more like a muted grey, were he to paint it with colours. Conversely to Blood Gulch’s dirt, its lone tree that stood like a pond in a desert, this place had a feeling of dread. Dread. That was the word. Like battle to battle, nobody was sure who was going to win. Tucker didn’t know which side he really wanted to triumph in this civil war; were it not for the fact they’d crash-landed, he’d have never paid the slightest attention. Maybe that’s what Kimball was trying to get at, this conflict happened because nobody outside of the planet cared.

His objective was to get back his friends. It was a simple one, but it seemed like everything before him stood in his way. Admittedly, Grif had become skilled at stealth missions; Simmons had invented a way of communication with Jensen (wherein which she would usually interpret the tone of his voice –she was more in charge than Dick, though); Caboose… Caboose was always going to be Caboose. Perhaps that was what relaxed Tucker, the fact that in all these changing events, all these people who’d threatened the lives of those around him, leaving Blood Gulch, Caboose remained essentially the same since Omega. All right, Church leaving so many times possibly left the boy a bit forlorn (and despite not being able to qualify as being a ‘boy’, he was a boy to everyone), and well, that’s why Freckles came about and nearly fucking killed them all.

It seemed like footnotes always came with their progress. Grif was only good for attacking the kitchens, and Simmons froze on the training ground to the point where even Jensen couldn’t get anything out of him.

Was Tucker free of this? Was he a soldier like Wash tried to encourage him to be?

So his time with the Sangheili left him a bit of a bad ass, and against those Tex drones he held his own. He tried to lead. He didn’t want to. Tucker doesn’t have a clear cut answer.

The terrible thing about where he was stationed now, with Felix and Kimball and the rest of the Rebel Army, was that it wasn’t the mornings that made him groan and wince. Not like the times Church would yell from the door of his room, with his bitchy fucking tone to ‘get the fuck up’, or when Agent Washington would menacingly stand above him and command him to ‘wake up and stop sleeping naked, how many times have I told you?’

But hey, the guy came and made sure he got a look. Or like Tucker enjoyed to think so. His armour made him intimidating, but out of it were he not so tall Tucker would have never considered him to be threatening. He’d be a perfect lead for an alternative-rock band. The guy had freckles and tousled blond hair that had grown out since joining the Blues. (Tucker was a bit weak for freckles).

Hard to imagine Wash and Sarge taking the torture by Locus sitting down, though. Tucker isn’t sure where this idea that Locus will do his worst to them came from. It could have been the way Felix behaved at the mention of his name – watching Locus knock Wash out. Hearing ‘ _Freckles, shake,’_ like some heroic sacrifice of Wash because he thought Locus had the worst coming for them. But no matter what was happening to them, what was happening to _Wash,_ there seemed to be some intrinsic need to get back to him. Haunted him every evening. The politics of the matter held no meaning. He’d rather arrive to find Wash breathing, he’d rather leave disturbing thoughts to somebody else whose name wasn’t Tucker.

Albeit after practice a sour mood would usurp the adrenaline high. He’d realise another day had gone by, another day where they should be trying to _rescue_ Wash and the others.

The late afternoon would envelope him. Dinner would only make him remember the MRE’s they had back at the hovel of a base they had at the crash-landing site. Wash would sit beside him in the ramshackle kitchen. The pair went back and forth of the quality of the food, until they’d realise Caboose hadn’t turned up, which lead to hunting for Caboose until they’d locate him in the closet, constructed haphazardly shortly after arrival. He’d say, “I thought we were playing hide and seek. Church always did before dinner.”

Palomo would start greasing him across the table, and he’d instantly be broken from his reverie.

He wishes he had a poetic way of talking about Wash. Like he’d be able to capture the man in a few sentences, convey the urgency to _get him back._ But he doesn’t, so he settles for the simple answer: “I want my friends back.”

Maybe that’s not the best way to put it. Even as he lay in the camper bed, in a room he shared with his lieutenant, the words never seemed to come to him. Tucker was the type where his best and strongest words came from the gravity of a situation at hand, not the aftermath or the leading up.

After Cunningham and Rogers’ death, after Kimball saying they only had five fucking days to train, after Felix had mocked their routines, he’d had enough.

This was never the way things worked.

And he was right, he knew he was. He was absolutely sure (not really, but that was kind of their shtick).

A niggling thought at the back of his mind – stupidly he considered it had a tone awfully like Wash – said it was a fucking _deathtrap_ they were walking into. Handing themselves to the barrel of Locus’ gun and greeting it with a smile.

Yet Grif, and Simmons, and Caboose, they agreed to go. Better to spare the lives of Jensen, Palomo, Smith, Bitters. Their purpose wasn’t to sacrifice themselves for people they’d never met.

Certainly, they’d tried to find information about Wash, try and understand who these people were. Tucker remained tongue-tied. Simmons would speak of Sarge, how he was the Red team’s leader, and Grif somehow managed to sneak compliments about him when retelling the escapades of the Blood Gulch Crew. Because Grif stayed, after all this time; he could have left after what went down at the Freelancer facility, when it turned out it wasn’t a real battle (or it wasn’t supposed to be). Simmons stayed.

Tucker stayed. Why did he?

He didn’t have the clearest answer, in the midst of this. By that point he hadn’t really known Wash, so he can’t say it’s because of him. Except he was glad he didn’t take the opportunity to pack his bags and leave his aqua armour behind, energy sword useless.

“This is so fucking stupid,” Grif muttered after escaping the abandoned building. They’d heard countless whines of ‘I’m slushy-less, Simmons, _slushy-less!”_ from Grif, and he’d changed topics by now.

“Grif, when have we _not_ done fucking stupid things?” Simmons countered from the back, upright in the gunner position. Their surroundings were nondescript by this point in the journey, but for the temperature which seemed to be steadily dropping. There was a high for Tucker, as the tyres of the warthog went further away from the Rebel Army to the Federal Army. Two opposing feelings in his stomach: closer to Wash, closer to foolish fatal injury.

But hey, it was an average day.

“Um, when we stayed put in Blood Gulch? Or maybe _not_ left Valhalla?”

“You agreed to this, asshole. You wanna go back and do some more push-ups, _Captain?_ ”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“I hope we find Church, too,” Caboose said in his dazed tone.

“What makes you think he’ll be there too? He left with Carolina months ago.” Tucker took the ticket for mindless conversation with Caboose, mulling the cocktail that swirled in his head.

“Well, Church can’t fly! So he must be here, of course. I know Church.”

Things hadn’t changed, really. Even if they had ‘Captain’ before their names now, and had to find independence now their own leaders had disappeared, nothing had fundamentally changed their dynamic. Their fuel now wasn’t based on nobility, or strategy, it was what had kept them going all along: protecting their friends.

It had certainly dealt them well so far.

“I wish we had music.” Grif went there again.

“It’s not our warthog. It would blow our disguise anyway!” Simmons’ stress level was heightening as his voice increased in pitch. Tucker had learnt this over the years.

“What _disguise?_ Ooh, fucking boo, we’re covered in sheets! We’re fucking ghosts!”

“Shut the fuck up and drive.”

Yeah, they were completely _fucked._

They’re close by then. The bases were closer than they’d imagined. He wondered what else Kimball had kept from him.

And somehow they get in. Somehow they break the sewage pipes – they made the right guess (was this their plan? Guessing? How the fuck had they got _this far?_ They should be dead by now. Wyoming should have killed them at Sidewinder).

Tucker realises, as the four make their dash across to where the door they need should be, it's the same kind of weather he met Wash in for the first time; taking down the Meta (another time they should not have survived). It's strange to think this could be the last moment he may see Wash, were the worst possible scenario to happen. Fitting.

And then the unimaginable happened.

Of all the people he’d expected. Simmons couldn’t hack the door, yet it opened ominously.

List of People Tucker Imagined Would Be on the Other Side of the Door, As Though a High Speed Camera Was Capturing the Moment:

  *          Soldier similar to the one he stabbed earlier
  *          Prison guard
  *          Somebody with a terrible English accent (their luck calls for Wyoming to turn up)
  *          Locus (he got lucky last time)



Wash wasn’t even _on_ the fucking list, let alone Lopez. (Lopez? How the fuck had Lopez made his way back?)

He’s speechless. At night his mind conjured up images of a lifeless Wash, pale skin and freckles marred by blood, hair knotted with struggle. Here he stood, proud in his armour with his fucking _rifle_ that Tucker had never seen used so expertly. Donut and Sarge flanking him (where _I_ should have been, Tucker thought disdainfully).

Tucker wonders what it would be like to chase ghosts. He’s glad he doesn’t have to.

The first word that comes out of Wash’s mouth is ‘Tucker.’ All this time, flown by where _Wash_ is on his fucking mind the entire time. He was the reason he dragged himself out bed, the reason he pushed through, the reason he fucking obsessed over plans and details and recordings of their training and push-ups and physical exertion and mental fatigue because _Wash wasn’t there._

He absentmindedly wonders when he became so sentimental. It’s Washington’s fault. He’d coasted by just _fine, thank you very fucking much_ through all they’d been through. Even Church, an AI, hearing his death (because to Tucker, he was human, he was more human than some of the _humans_ he’d met before), he’d just had to move on and bite his mouth. Watch just a memory of the man become known as Church, realise he didn’t even remember Tucker. Didn’t remember they were best friends. Watch him leave, again and again and Tucker left in the dust, as his name wasn’t Tex or Allison or Carolina or the Director.

This time, he wanted somebody to fucking _remember him_ and he wanted to make a _change,_ he wanted to fucking get Wash back because he _meant something._

So to say when Wash turned up – other comments aside from Donut, or Sarge – he wasn’t relieved. It was more like stark shock and _pride._ He’d fucking got Wash back. _Breathing._

Nothing really matters by that point. Tucker bites the chance while he has it, though, rips off his helmet and then Wash’s – Simmons is likely thinking he’s a _genius_ for finding Sarge and Caboose is waiting for Church to pop out – kisses the man like a long lost lover, communication bitten by rough conflict.

But that was what had happened anyway, really.

Tucker isn’t one for romance, fuck no, but Wash was the kind you don’t let mercenaries get in the way of, or civil wars, or alarms going off for. You grab it and hold it tight. At least that's what the soap operas say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have a great day. let me know what you think~!


	2. suus uni ex vitae manga mysteria, est eat non

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a senseless thing to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short muse because ep 9. Did anybody else cry out when they heard Emily? Because I so fucking assumed that was Sister. (and yeah, I loved this episode beyond belief. It was perfect).  
> comment if you like, let me know what you think. (chapter title is credit to redditor: Moesohh for latin)

What had he _become?_

The question Locus posed was not this. But the one that came up in his mind – the one that he thought of, the one he was dragged back to when he lay motionless – was one that pervaded him.

Jumbles of memories pop forth like Epsilon is in his mind, still. Agent Washington doesn’t have the answers. The possible manipulation by the Federal Army hearkens back to Project Freelancer; his environment shifts and pulls and chokes him.

How does he _put this_ to _himself._ How does he explain to _himself,_ when he is so often used to doing so to others. How does he say to himself: _what have I become?_ More importantly: how does he _answer_ this?

“I am a soldier.” That is one to begin with.

“I have been through extensive trauma. I also lied through therapy, so that may not have helped.” Better.

“My friends died. The first people I met after that, I betrayed.” Here, he pulls back the material. The wounds show.

“But then, they gave me a second chance.” The blood runs.

“I got revenge.”

“And then we were shipwrecked. And the single person that – that began to _mean_ something—” His skin is clean and clear and bandaged, and Agent Washington hides from the memory. Hides away like he has for so long. York died and North died and CT had died _so long before_ that, and the minute Tucker is snatched away the only thing he can do is stop. That’s all he has left and that’s all he _can do._ Focus on what has to be done next, decipher his enemy. But good god, do not let Agent Washington near _emotions_ and _feelings_ when his mind was assaulted by those of another. The heart of himself was enough, but dealing with the loss and yearning the Director had felt… that was indescribable.

Tucker had not seen the worst of him. Tucker had not seen the brutal Freelancer, the man out for an objective. He had seen protection (gun to the head), he had seen leadership (complaining and squats and drills), he had seen a companion. That’s what Wash wanted to protect. He wanted somebody to not see that total loss of self.

Indeed, that could be the answer to Locus’ question. He cared for the Reds and Blues _because_ they saw that and still said “Yes, you can come with us.” And then there was Tucker. _Tucker._

That was what Locus could not understand. That acceptance. Above all, above everything _Wash had become._

Wash didn’t have much to fight for. He had a sense of survival instinct and that was enough. To maybe clear his name and get out the mess that had become Project Freelancer and his record. And then the Reds and Blues came along. Agent Washington dwells on this often. It’s an insignificant moment, Caboose probably can’t even recall it. But to him? It’s the pivotal point.

_What was he then?_

Somebody looking for a way out, ready to hold a gun to the people that would help him? It’s shocking, the way they instantly accept him. It’s almost _dumb._ Actually, it was dumb. But that was their fashion to risk, he supposes, and he had proven himself to them in a sense. He had a duty to the Reds and Blues, by any other means. A promise was made, not out loud but he hoped his actions spoke enough: _he would protect them._

That could, too, serve as an answer to Locus. His own question. Protecting them had escalated from a moral solution to caring. Caring had remained a fickle thing for Wash, knowing of where it had placed him in the past. Yet so: _this is what he had become._

_A protector._

That was more than a soldier’s mission of great nobility, or a mercenary of contracts and plans. Could Locus call himself a protector? Or Felix? Or anybody he’d met?

He’s proud of it when he comes to that solution. It is a personal way to describe Agent Washington, not one he’d say out loud but a description nonetheless.

_He had something to fight for._

Even if he couldn’t face his emotions, even if the act was overwhelming, he could at least maybe approach it. Recognise there was something to cherish amongst the dense cloud of death in his mind and bottled up corner of his memories.

What was more important now was upholding this duty. Whether it means treading ground where he had not before, or giving a good _fuck you_ to people he shouldn’t, he’ll do it. He wants answers to the questions he asked first, he wants fifty thousand tanks and twenty two thousand drop ships and nine hundred rocket launchers. He wants the cavalry to land right on top the Rebels and miss Caboose by an inch, and he wants grandiose actions of love. Wash had impenetrable walls in his mind, in his behaviour, in his past. Sheltered behind commands and stoicism. He had become a volcano now. He would shoot General Doyle in the face if it meant saving Tucker, Caboose, Simmons and Grif. (Sarge does not stop complaining about Grif. Somehow, this entire conflict boils down to Grif’s fault. It’s an illogical path that’s complemented by Lopez’s Spanish remarks).

He had learnt a lesson. He had hid himself away. He had killed, sided with the wrong side, masked questions and answers; he was a hypocrite, compared to the Alpha, who lived in denial. The AI that considered itself a ghost until its very death. Yet here Agent Washington stood, locking up sentiments like faulty hardware.

And the little he could do was try and atone for that. Say the things he should have. He got things right sometimes, he did, but they were little steps. He fixed Caboose’s helmet, tried to properly lead. But there was so _much more_ he could have done. ( _‘Could have’_ permeates his life). And he’ll be damned if he won’t get another chance.

Locus can wax on, carry a menacing air and pretend to be a hired gun that’s paid the right price. He can harbour resentment and speak of his rehearsed combat strategies. It holds no meaning for Agent Washington, when there’s a fuckhead in the room and the most he wants is to get _out_ and find the others.

_Find Tucker._

He’s not fixed. Agent Washington is not _insane –_ he has seen deranged, even, seen various levels of stability – but he has suffered. The most he can do now is focus on what he can. Stop comparing himself to those darker times, stop behaving like the past defines him.

Amidst this confusion and discovery, these moments that challenge his _very self,_ when the decision comes to leave – it’s inevitable – the last thing he expected was _him._

He’ll readily admit that amongst a particular liking for skateboarding and cats (he had little time for now), he also had a penchant for lists. They were always incessantly scattered about Project Freelancer, in the back of his warthog when he spent time as Recovery One, and then after all at the base he shared with Caboose and Tucker, here on Chorus. Tucker grew tired of finding _fix-today_ , _clean-today, exercise routine, rations, Things To Keep Caboose Quiet_ lists, he started making his own out of spite. The lists served as a way to categorise his thoughts, try and hoist his thoughts out of his mind.

List of Things Wash Expected Outside, In the Chaos:

  *          Worried soldiers about their belongings
  *          General Doyle
  *          The doctor, Emily
  *          Locus (he had a bad habit of standing on the other side of doors just to scare people, for fun)
  *          Carolina (would actually be helpful)
  *          A dead Freelancer, newly resurrected (his luck)



Tucker wasn’t even on the fucking list – Tucker _used_ to always be on his lists, but not that one, not this one.

He holds his gun up longer than he should. He’s learning, but he can’t help doubt the validity of the situation, the possibility of betrayal.

 _Agent Washington protected them for many reasons. Locus could not comprehend this; that there_ was _sense in protecting them. Because small moments like these are worth it._

Worth it.

A concept that had been alien for a long time, to Agent Washington.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short but hey short is good


End file.
